


Cratylism

by rei_c



Series: Fundamental Image 'verse [9]
Category: Supernatural
Genre: Gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2006-12-14
Updated: 2006-12-14
Packaged: 2017-12-28 02:31:35
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,448
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/986622
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/rei_c/pseuds/rei_c
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>What’s in a name?</p>
            </blockquote>





	Cratylism

**Author's Note:**

> S1 spoilers, all the way through, as well as spoilers for 2x01. Run-on sentences. Any and all errors relative to established SPN-canon, previous FI-verse fics, referenced mythology, religion, or mysticism, and/or anything else spoken of herein are mine and mine alone. 
> 
> This ficlet takes place pre-series, mid-season one, post-series and contains spoilers for all Fundamental Image 'verse fics. It will probably not make sense without previously having read those.

  
**Cratylism  
An FI-verse ‘5 Things’ Ficlet**

_What is this face, less clear and clearer_  
The pulse in the arm, less strong and stronger—  
Given or lent? more distant than stars and nearer than the eye  
\--“Marina,” T.S. Eliot

 

i.  
 _Lanmò-mennen_  


A week after Dean leaves and Sam ends up crying in the confessional, a week of throwing himself into school and hiding from his friends, Sam starts doing research. There’s very little information on what the woman called him, but all of it seems to be related to vaudun practices or rites, New Orleans voodoo, the kind of thing that has the potential, even after everything he’s seen, hunted, killed, to scare him with the mere mention of its name.

He remembers being nine, barely old enough to go on the safer hunts with Dad and Dean, and 

_sitting in the backseat of the Impala, watching out the window as his dad bargains with a houngon, the near tangible sight of power and foreign spirits clinging to the man. The priest looks at Sam, right at him, and smiles, inclines his head. Sam flinches but is unable to look away, and he feels something, staring into that man’s eyes, returning the gaze._

_Dean hisses at him to stop staring, and the man turns back to John, says something that has John shaking his head and stomping back to the Impala, thundercloud on his face. Sam sinks into the seat as John opens the door and looks in, right at him. “He wants to see you. Closer. And we need the gris-gris.” Dean’s mouth opens in protest, eyes flicking back at Sam, and John cuts him off, says, “I know, Dean, and I like it even less than you do. Come on, Sam. Don’t say anything to him, don’t go anywhere, don’t do anything except stand there, you understand?” Sam stirs in the seat, looks over at Dean, who’s white and obviously displeased, then says, “Yes, sir,” and gets out of the car._

_Up closer, the houngon smells of blood and chickens, Jack Daniels and death, and when he smiles down at Sam, his teeth are white, gleaming, like bones. John’s hand tightens on his shoulder, and the houngon crouches down, face at Sam’s level, and says, “It’s good to lay eyes on you, child.” Sam doesn’t say anything, but he can’t tear his eyes away from the priest’s face, thinks he sees flames in the back of those pupils, limitless pinpricks of black._

_“You think I should give your father what he wants? Give him the gris-gris? Do you think he knows how to use it?” Sam looks up at John, who nods, once, and then turns back to the houngon. Sam nods, the man laughs, and they leave ten minutes later, gris-gris in hand, John silent, Dean pale, Sam hugging his knees in the backseat, looking down at the floor._

_The following day, John uses the gris-gris to kill a zombie, trapped in a vévé of brick dust and blood, burns it to ash. Sam doesn’t look back when they leave Louisiana, and the next time John gets a job down there, Sam is left with Caleb._

He thinks of the houngon and the woman in downtown San Francisco, sees, clear as day, the rune inked on her palm, twisted and small, curves outlined in blue, as she waved to him. Sam sketches out the rune, can’t remember if the priest had one or not, and starts looking to see if there’s any more information on the symbol than there is on the words she’d called him. 

\--

Jess knocks on his door at two in the morning, Becky and Danny behind her holding beer and chips. “Guys, I’m,” he starts, and Jess cuts him off, ducks under his arm and into his room. “Busy, we know. This is an intervention. We’re hanging out, watching a couple movies, and not leaving until sunrise. Deal with it.” Her tone is short, but she’s wearing a worried expression; when Sam turns to raise an eyebrow at his other two friends, they don’t look much better. He looks back at Jess, eyes flicking to his desk, the open textbooks, the sketched-out image of that rune, and shrugs. “I hope you didn’t bring chick flicks.”

 

ii.  
 _Friend of the Taisch Clan_  


Sam and Dean stop by Blue Earth on their way to Idaho, following up a lead Sam had picked up on the way out of St. Louis. Sam’s still walking unsteadily, back aching and muscles sore, and Dean’s favouring his left leg. The long drive wasn’t the best decision they’ve ever made, so when they pull up and park the car, start walking towards the rectory with joints that pop and creak with every step, it both hurts and feels good at the same time. Dean knocks and Jim answers the door a couple minutes later, eyes widening as he first takes in Dean, the uncomfortable way he’s holding himself, and nearly gasps when his eyes flick past Dean to Sam, Sam’s black eye and healing face, the fading fingerprints around his neck. “Dear God,” he says, stepping to the side, ushering them in.

He herds them to the kitchen, makes them sit and pours them shots while the kettle boils. “What happened?” he asks, and Dean says, “Shifter in St. Louis. One of Sam’s friends.” Jim’s gaze slides to Sam, and the priest asks, “One of the Warrens?” Dean gapes as Jim adds, “I hope they’re both all right.” Sam nods, downs the shot of whisky and winces at the burn, says, “They’ll be fine. Becky’s a little traumatised, but she’s tough. The shifter’s dead, was buried wearing Dean’s face.” 

The kettle whistles and Jim pours tea, adds more whisky, and Dean asks, quietly, “How do you know about Sam’s friends, Jim?” Sam’s heart skips a beat, he hasn’t said anything to Dean about it, and Jim doesn’t answer right away, brings them their tea and glances at Sam as if to ask what he should say. Sam shrugs and sips, the liquid burning his mouth, the whisky burning his oesophagus, the cup warm between his hands. “What,” Dean says, the one word a more poignant demand than anything else he might have said. 

Jim sits down and says, “Drink your tea, Dean. Sam’s kept in contact with me, ever since the time you and John dropped him off to go hunt mudmen. Rebecca and Zachary were close friends of Sam’s; he wrote very highly of them.” Dean looks at Jim for a long, weighted moment, then leaves the kitchen, treading up the steps without looking at Sam.

“I’m sorry,” Jim says, a few minutes later, after they’ve heard the toilet flush, after the water in the bathroom’s run and floorboards in the spare bedroom have creaked. “I didn’t realise he didn’t know.” Sam shakes his head, traces the rim of the tea-cup, says, “It’s all right. I didn’t know how to tell him. There was never a good time; you’ve saved me the trouble of bringing it up.” They sit in silence, listening to the little bits of traffic in Blue Earth, a dog barking a couple streets over. “What else?” Jim asks, and Sam looks at him, raises an eyebrow. “There’s something else, Sam. Your last few emails have been, I’m not sure, neglectful, I suppose? You have questions about something.” 

Sam sighs, but nods. “When I was here, and the fae,” he trails off, and Jim turns white. Sam smiles at that, half-sad, half-mocking, and nods. “She was from the _taisch_ clan, and my blood worked to send her back, which means I possess the _taisch_ , or could someday. I never made the connection until Jess.” Jim frowns, says, “Sam, I don’t see how your having second sight,” and stops when Sam cuts him off with a simple, “I dreamt it. For days.” Jim looks shaken, Sam can’t blame him; he pushes over the glass Dean left and pours whisky for Jim, who throws it back and then chases it with another. “I haven’t had any more. I don’t know if I will, or it’s connected, or anything. But Jim, it happened exactly like it did in my dreams.” Jim murmurs, “Friend of the _taisch_ and she gave you her name,” and neither of them sleep that night. 

\--

Sam and Dean stay at Jim’s for a week. Dean cleans guns and tunes up the Impala and Sam sits on the front porch and pretends to read. He goes through every book on the fae that Jim owns, remembers some of them from that fateful week years ago. Jim comes out with coffee and a new book at one point, smiles as Dean starts swearing loud enough for the tone but not the precise words to flow back at them. “What Eilidh told you,” Jim says. “Do you remember all of it?” Sam takes too long to answer, and he eventually says, “No. I don’t remember all of it,” though whether that’s truth or a convenient reality, not even Sam knows.

\--

When they leave the next morning, Sam gives Jim a tattered, dog-eared book, the front cover missing. “I have enough thoughts of my own,” he says, and as they drive away, Sam can see Jim thumbing through the one book Sam’s never gone anywhere without. 

A few miles down the road, out of Blue Earth, Sam says, “I’m sorry. I didn’t know how to,” and Dean stops him, says, “Believe it or not, Sam, I get it.” Sam shakes his head, wants to ask how Dean can say that when he doesn’t know anything about the fae, doesn’t know about the way holy water stung that morning against Sam’s skin, like an old, forgotten promise. 

Sam doesn’t say anything, wouldn’t be heard over the Motorhead that Dean’s just switched on, wouldn’t know what to say even if the car was as silent as it feels.

 

iii.  
 _Yerik, the Bargain-Maker_  


Sam opens his eyes and looks around, pulling his fire under as much control as he can muster. It flares around him, though, twining against an ankle, skipping above his shoulders, lighting the corner of the astral plane he arrived in. The astral’s darker than black, deeper than infinity in all directions, and the starlit paths are humming a tune that sinks into Sam’s bones and sets his fire on song. He moves, enough to crack his neck, pop his shoulders, and the sound spirals out, bounces and dances around the dead as they approach.

It’s only his second time here alone, still has that feeling of ‘new’ and ‘home,’ both at once, though the newness, the strangeness is fading. Missouri’s told him stories, though, tales of some of the greater dead, the ones who lurk near the centre of the darkness, old necromancers who hide in the paths, vengeful spirits existing solely to trap the living visitors, demons who tempt everything and anything to lose sure footing and fall through the astral forever. He hears her in the back of his head, her warnings and Jeannie’s reassurances, and he doesn’t flinch when the dead reach out for him and the final rest he offers. 

\--

The dead keep coming, drawn by what he is, what he represents, until Sam’s tired and can feel insubstantial fingers sliding through the fire coiling around him. He closes his eyes, readies himself for the jump to the psychic plane, and as his mind and fire leap, he hears something that sounds like promises. 

Jeannie’s waiting for him in the psychic plane, glowing an indistinct red in the twilight of the plane, a sign of her commitment to the loa. There’s a wild bang of colour at the far end of Sam’s vision, and Sam asks, _What’s happening?_ because he’s never seen the plane lit as it is now, stripes of blue and green painted over one another, sparking into fireworks. _Complements_ , Jeannie says. _Someone new’s just come into their power._

She sounds unhappy, not at all pleased, and when he asks why, she shakes her head. _There’s a bad path ahead for those two. One’s been chosen by a demon as prey, the other by a siren as a mate. They bargained for the opportunity to be here, like this, but bargains never end well, not the kind they made._ Sam shivers, asks, _Nothing can be done? The demon, it could be banished back to hell, someone could kill the siren_ , but Jeannie says, _They made a bargain, Sam. They’ll have to live with it, blood, breath, bone, and being. Don’t worry about it, Sam. You’re new enough here that no one will expect you to mourn when they pass._

He frowns, brings a stray flame back under control, and is about to ask what she means when she says, _Let’s go back. It’s almost time for dinner, and your brother’s starting to get worried about you._ Sam nods, closes his eyes, and falls back into his body. He opens his eyes, back in Missouri’s living room, and Dean is there, waiting for him.

 

iv.  
 _The Shadowless One_  


Dean drives them to a house on the reservation, small and empty of people but with two beds in one room, a dream-catcher on every wall. Autumn is there, waiting, and when Sam looks between them for an explanation, she gives it, says, “You’ll stay here while you recover,” to the space over Sam’s left shoulder. “When you’re well enough, the shaman would like you to join him in the smokehouse.” She leaves quickly and Dean’s jaw clenches, but Sam shakes his head, holds onto Dean’s shoulder. “I think I need to lie down,” he says, and rubs his chest, fingers and palm grazing the stitches. Dean doesn’t say anything, just helps Sam to bed.

Sam comes down with a fever that night, spends three days trapped in a hallucination that sounds like Adam and feels like death, and when he finally opens his eyes, pale and drained and over the worst of it, Dean’s there. Sam stares, watches Dean sleep, sees the circles under Dean’s eyes and the raw knuckles of Dean's right hand. Dean wakes up quickly and quietly, like a trained hunter, and stares at Sam like he’s been drowning and Sam’s land, if only Dean can reach it.

\--

The smoke is thick, cloying. Sam can feel it twine up his nostrils, haze out his mind, fill his lungs and blood. He wants Dean, needs to know that Dean’s okay, that Dean forgives him, that Dean will be there if Sam needs him. There’s a rattle of bells, and Sam’s first instinct is to jump, to find a knife, to run and hide, but the smoke has numbed him out, so he just turns and looks at the shaman. 

It’s been a week since Sam woke up on the reservation and thought of fire, deep and hungry, prowling in his body. Now that Sam’s over the fever and healing well from Adam’s botched ritual, he’s sitting in the smokehouse with the shaman, waiting for the old man to speak and thinking of Dean. “I did not teach the _yenadlooshi_ well,” the shaman says, the weight of judgment in his voice. “To not know one of the shadowless when one crosses his path.” Sam shivers though his skin is painted in sweat and says, “It’s not his fault,” though it kills something inside of him to defend Adam, makes his voice break and his heart race. “I hid it, when he met me.” 

The shaman studies Sam, shakes his head. “You are better to him than he deserves, after perverting his ancestors’ traditions. He should have known, if not from you, then from your brother.” At Sam’s startled look, lidded eyes widening slightly, slightly more green than normal, the shaman laughs and shifts closer to the smoking brazier. Sam looks at the coals, watching them glow and ash up, and the smoke hangs heavy all around him. “Dean,” he begins, then stops, unsure what he means to say, to ask, to demand. The shaman rests a hand on Sam’s shoulder, gestures at the stitches dotting a pattern over Sam’s chest and says, “It was a mistake, but not on your end, Samuel.” 

Sam blinks, swallows, asks, “What do I do now?” The shaman looks at him, eyes deep and impenetrable, glittering in the light of the smoke and the heat of the coals. “Who are you really, Samuel?” he asks in return. “Underneath your names, your family, beneath the masks you wear and display for others, who are you?” The shaman looks serious, nearly fierce, and Sam can’t meet his gaze, can’t answer, can’t do anything but shake his head and let the smoke sting his eyes. 

“Then think,” the shaman says, “of who you will become. You are fortunate in this,” and Sam’s head snaps up, fire brimming inside of his bones as he says, “Fortunate in what?” because he doesn’t see it, doesn’t understand a thing the shaman’s hinting at. “You have no shadow to weigh you down, to tie you to this place, the way others do, the way my ancestors keep me here,” the shaman says, stirring up the coals. A fresh wave of smoke fills the air and he goes on, says, “You are one of the shadowless, like smoke, able to float and forge your own path. It is not a loss, to be free like that. It is an opportunity and one you can either hate or treasure.” 

Sam rubs his face, picks absently at the stitches in his palms. “Free to make my own destiny,” he half-asks, and when the shaman nods, Sam says, “That’s what I’ve always done. People have a tendency to die when I try.” The shaman holds out his arms and looks at the ceiling, where drops of water are starting to condense, says, “The shadowless are drawn together, but few have someone like you have your brother. Few have a rock to return to. I have never seen the ocean,” and Sam frowns, because that doesn’t fit, not until he thinks about it. His mind feels like smoke, insubstantial, the shaman’s words swirling around him, the feeling of fire in his bones distracting. “An anchor, you mean,” Sam says. The shaman smiles and, outside, wolves start howling. Sam shivers again and the shaman closes his eyes and says, “If you listen, you can hear the wings of the free.” 

Sam closes his eyes and listens, and in the silence outside, he hears Dean laughing.

 

v.  
 _The Diviner_  


In the first few days after leaving Jeannie’s, when Dean’s starting to treat Sam like Sam again and not a piece of glass that might shatter at any moment, at the slightest hint of provocation, Sam thinks about what Granny Jo called him. Even with the visions, he’s never thought of himself as a diviner before, because he doesn’t _try_ to see the future, and, half the time, his visions aren’t clear enough to serve as any help. It’s just who he is, the gifts he has, no names to define him except ones that don’t fit, ones he doesn’t want, or ones he doesn’t understand.

Sam’s head aches, he rubs his temples, chases out the things he’s read, the things he wonders about, and feels Dean look over at him. “I’m okay,” Sam says, before Dean can ask. “It’s just a normal headache.” Dean hums, looks back at the road stretching out in front of the Impala, and doesn’t say anything not for a while, not until he asks, “You’ll tell me if it _is_ a vision.” It’s not a question, not really, but Sam says, “Of course,” like he can’t believe Dean even needs to voice it. 

“Where are we heading?” Sam asks, a few miles later, when neither of them has said anything and the Oklahoma hills are sweeping past their windows. “Dunno,” Dean says, shrugging. “Thought maybe we’d head south. Mississippi, Georgia, somewhere hot.” Sam laughs, says, “Not north, looking for snow?” and stops, taken aback, when Dean’s hands tighten on the wheel. “Dean?” he asks, and Dean shakes his head, consciously, obviously forces himself to relax. 

“Dean, what’s wrong?” Sam asks, worried now. “C’mon, man. What’s going on?” Dean says, “Nothing, Sammy. Don’t worry about it,” and turns on the radio. Sam shuts it off and when Dean glares at him, Sam says, “You gonna talk to me?” Dean says, “Nothing to talk about,” and turns the music back on. Sam sits back in his seat, looks out of the window, and shudders as fire licks out of his bones and pools low in his belly.


End file.
